Inside weathered hands, lines where heat and water have run away with our strength, we now indent each other; aged. We calm down time and cup it pealing the skin of each minute and like love lost children we soak each falling kindness and hypnotically follow its trail.
Inside weathered hands lives a little warmth where we can hold each piece of broken moments lost. We bear evidences of things no longer remembered but worn, and like young favour the savoured relics of the gone.
Inside weathered hands is room, narrow passages next to fingers and valleys for you to leave me and return, to burn and scar and hold the moon. We do not demand, but lend and borrow and bend, always bend to reach each other tomorrow
No comments:
Post a Comment